The Land of Empty Skies
by icor
Summary: [Tactics AU] Cloud Strife, Ivalice, and the art of getting home. [CloudAerith, Ifalna, Mustadio, Zack.]
1. Chapter 1

**Notes:** (a) loosely based on the**1sentence** claim, _Butterfly Edge_, I did forever ago. (b) there's no official word out yet, so Luso's age is entirely a guess, based on the fact that Ramza thinks he looks young. (c) Aerith is using Gast and Ifalna's surname here, because there is no Elmyra in this 'verse.

Feedback, as ever, is loved.

---

It has been three months, two weeks and six days and I am still not used to this world. If I am awake for too long I feel sick in the back of my throat and the pit of my stomach, and when I try to sleep, to dream, I wake with a headache worse than any nausea. I wake with a start and it's cold and bright, but I can't place the time anymore than I can remember how I got here. It's silent. I used to wake up with a radio beside me, and now the people around me don't even know what a radio_is_. I'm starting to think I dreamt it up. I'm starting to think I made everything before this up.

Probably. I don't remember any of it. Nothing substantial.

I'm in Aerith's house. Well, her mother's house, really. It's huge and empty and always feels cold (although I haven't yet been here for a summer) and they only live here because it costs them nothing. Her father was a chemist, and after his death his well-to-do patron left them this house. It's more a ruin, actually; there were three more rooms, but they've crumbled now. There are holes in most of the walls, bricks missing, and they try to keep the draft out by stretching old, worn fabric across the gaps.

I give them a hundred gil a week to stay in this cold little room—the bed creaks whenever I so much as breathe, and the bedsheets feel like hay—and they take it happily, and I try my best to keep out of their way. Getting up makes the bed groan, and the stone floor chills my toes, so I jump from foot to foot. The front room's the only room with a carpet, and even that's threadbare. Nothing in the room is mine, other than the clothes I stumbled in, and they hang from nails hammered between bricks. I grab them before I leave the room. All I'm wearing now is a pair of her father's old trousers. He was much taller than me, and I nearly trip over my tangled feet.

In the bathroom there's running water. It's cold, but it does the job. I pump a bucket full, strip off, pick up a sponge and begin to wash myself. It doesn't take long, spurred on by the icy water, and I use the makeshift-pajama bottoms to towel myself off. Dressed, clean and cold, I walk along the corridor and consider knocking on Aerith's door for a moment—but I hesitate a second before the act, because I don't know the time. Maybe she's out. Maybe she's sleeping. The sun is shining but I don't understand this world, so nothing registers for me.

It's like the clock in my head has shattered, and the broken shards are making it hard for me to see the hands. And so I don't knock. We don't talk much. She wants to talk to me and I want to talk to her, but something is keeping me away. I'm not scared. It's just that—I know her. She doesn't know me.

I don't remember her at all. Not her face, her eyes, or even her name. I had to ask her it three times before I remembered it. Took me four attempts to spell it correctly. I don't recall ever having a conversation with her before, and I didn't recognise the sound of her voice, but I _know_ I've said everything there is to say to her already. It just makes me nervous, I suppose. I might say—do—something ridiculous. I'm not even from this world, and I feel like I've know her for—not forever, certainly, but for a while, at least. Long enough.

And so, that's how it is. I'm just the lodger. Sometimes I see her in town and she waves to me, and sometimes we eat together or talk in the hallway. Worst of all, she believes me. She knows I'm not from this world, this Ivalice, and she acts quite casually about it all, explains things to me that I wouldn't otherwise understand.

Careful to skip the half-crumbled step, I jog down the stairs into the kitchen. Ifalna's sitting at the table, and for a moment, in the strange shadows made by the thin slitted windows, I think it's Aerith. They look a lot alike, Aerith and Ifalna, and Ifalna's not yet so old that her hair's turned completely grey. She was probably only a little older than I am now when she had Aerith, and she's just as kind as her daughter. Aerith's told her about me, or so I think, because she accepts me with a bizarre sort of ease, almost as if I'm just a ghost passing through.

I pause and catch her eye—it never occurred to me that perhaps I'm dead, after all. I shake my head and say good morning. She smiles. She's got a huge, patch-work shawl wrapped around her, because they only use the fire when it's _really_ cold. Sometimes I collect firewood to make myself feel useful. As if she can read my mind, Ifalna tells me Aerith's out, working.

I feel guilty. Since leaving Ramza and the others, I've done _nothing._ I haven't even taken care of myself properly. I'm only here because a stranger in a tavern told me go back here if I felt so drawn to the place, gave me a few thousand gil, and I was drunk enough to start wandering back to Zarghidas. Once I sobered up I didn't have the energy to stop. And so I got here, found Aerith again—who, this time, didn't need saving—and since then I haven't done anything. I sit and think. I try to remember. I get nowhere, and I don't understand why they haven't asked me to leave yet.

Ifalna's eating bread, and we ran out of butter last week. I get some for myself and it's a little stale, but it feels good, heavy, in my stomach. We talk for a while and my head's starting to clear. She asks me if I've remembered anything, and I lie. I try to change the subject, but Aerith gets her persistence from her mother.

It's not so much a case of working out what I could do to earn gil—it's trying to figure out what I _haven't_ done yet. I don't remember anything specific, but my hands are calloused so I figure I've done pretty much everything in the twenty one years of my life I don't remember. Funny how I know how old I am and my name, but nothing else. Those things I could easily make up.

"Hey," I say, after a while, chewing the last of the crust, "I'm going to work today."

Ifalna straightens in her chair. "That's nice, Cloud," she says, genuinely happy for me. She's smiling at me, not humouring me. For some ridiculous reason I have the urge to make things better for Aerith, and so, by association, her mother too.

I take some of my things out of a little alcove in the wall. Grey stone. Everything is grey, and my sword is gleaming amongst the ruins. I sheath it and strap it to my back. (I've been given strange looks for doing this, because people here keep their swords by the sides. Then again, my clothes are stranger.)

I walk to the tavern, where I know all kinds of bills will be posted. The streets of Zarghidas are cobbled but my soles are thick, and the clock in the town centre says it's almost midday. Strange. I thought it was later. Or earlier. Shaking my head I enter the tavern, take a seat and empty my pockets. I have nine hundred gil left; I've given three hundred to Ifalna so far, and I'm not sure where the rest has gone. All of a sudden I feel deflated, like this is a very bad idea. I don't think I'm going to be much help. All I do is think about a past that might not have ever happened.

The barkeeper's looking at me out the corner of his eye, so I have to do_something_; getting up, looking more confident than I feel, I pull random bills from the board until I have a handful, pick up a piece of chalk and sit back down. The man relaxes, but keeps one eye on me. I study the bills. Nothing looks interesting. Nothing looks challenging. I worry because I don't want to do anything, and wonder when I became so unmotivated. Or maybe I've always been like this.

And then I remember something. How I react changes depending on what I remember, but most often everything around me is suddenly very quiet. When I remember, it's never a whole scene; it's just one sense, contorted. Right now I'm remembering a dream; there's no noise, but there's an image I can't see. I close my eyes, take hold of the chalk and scrawl on the back of a bill. I draw circles and sharp lines, and it's not at all neat. Glancing down I see I've drawn a city. I don't know how I know this, but it's all metal and floating, and I feel like I was in its shadow at once point. And I know Aerith wasn't there with me at the time, but I think that she should have been. I'm getting a headache, so I don't think about it anymore.

I turn over the bill I've drawn on, and decided to take it without even reading it. It's a Behemoth—I've killed those before. I think.

---

The Behemoth's two towns and a bit over, and I start to walk. I'm about half a mile away from Zarghidas when the earth starts to pound beneath my feet, and I'm smart enough to stand back and clear the dirt track. There's a wagon fast approaching, pulled by two chocobos. The owner slows when he sees me, jerks his thumb to the back where there are a couple of other people sitting amongst haystacks and asks if I want a lift. I give him thirty gil and then I'm sitting amongst the hay, and it's definitely less comfortable than my bed.

The two chocobos that pull the wagon are proud creatures. They have strong legs and move quicker than any I've ever seen before, their beaks held high to the early-afternoon sun. I suppose they've been running back and forth across this track their entire lives, and now think that they're the kings of it. They certainly wouldn't let anyone on their backs, that's for sure. I stare out towards the distance and then somebody's shaking my shoulder.

It's a young boy—maybe about fourteen—and I'm surprised that, out of all the people in Ivalice, I've met him before. He grins widely at me when I turn around.

"Hey Cloud," he says, "How are things going for you?"

I stiffen, a bit. I'm not so good at this. At least he doesn't speak like Ramza did, like all the high-borns do. He talks just like Aerith, and Aerith tells me her blood is as common as dirt.

I don't answer right away. Luso tilts his head, and eventually I say, "Still not found your friends?" and he looks disheartened for a moment, shakes his head, and then the grin is back.

"Nope. But I'm still hunting! How about yourself?" He's got a spear with him, I notice, and a sword around his waist.

"Working." It feels weird to say it after so much time dedicated to doing nothing. I pull out the bill and show him the Behemoth. There's a signature in red ink at the bottom where they partitioner's agreed to pay me if I can bring back one of it's horns unscathed. I wasn't really listening, but apparently they're a key ingredient in remedies. Whatever the case is, I'll be getting five hundred gil for this.

"Whoa," Luso says, and then his eyes are fiery. Of course—when he first met Ramza, he was being chased by two of the monsters. "_Whoa_. Let me come along?"

I wonder if he actually planned on going somewhere in particular before he came across me. If he had, he's certainly forgotten it now, and his eyes are sparkling with an odd sort of naïve desire for revenge. I suppose I look as if I'm about to say no, because he quickly adds, "I don't want any of the money."

I shrug my shoulders, which I suppose he takes to be a yes, because he looks rather pleased with himself. Help wouldn't hurt. I haven't fought in a while, and fighting is always strange out here—I feel as if I'm so much stronger than I really am, as if I have more skill than I can ever summon. My legs feel too slow and heavy. My arms have trouble keeping a hold of the sword. Well; I still fight better than most.

"Why do you want the money anyway?" Luso asks. This is all fun and games to him, as a kid. He's in it for the danger, to make himself stronger. He probably eats from fruit trees, drinks from rivers, and sleeps in barns.

"I have to pay to stay where I'm living."

"You live with someone?" Either he's curious, impressed, bored, or all three.

"Yeah."

"A girl?"

I shrug again, and he looks too smug for a fourteen year old.

---

Back in Zarghidas my arms hurt and my lip is bloody, but I feel good. There's energy I didn't know I possessed pumping through me, and plenty of gil in my pocket. Taking into account what it cost to get there and back I've made four hundred and twenty gil. Maybe I'll buy some fresh food, something that isn't bland.

I'm walking through town, minding my own business when I see Aerith. For some reason, maybe because of my high spirits, I call to her, even though my throat is suddenly dry. She looks around, catches my eye and then walks over with a smile on her face. I frown; her flower basket is almost full. The gil is my pocket is very, very heavy. I want to give it all to her.

Aerith looks at me, leans forward and then she's so close that I have to take a step back.

"Have you been in a fight?" she asks, but I expect she knows the answer.

I nod, and before she can ask _why_ or _how_, I pull out the bill. It's pretty battered by now. She takes it, turns it the right way up and gives me a sort of approving smile, but there's still worry beneath it all. I tell her much gil I've earnt and it fizzles away. Aerith laughs and I carry on the awkward conversation for a few minutes more, until the nagging the the back of my head tells me I should leave, that I shouldn't bother her. She still has plenty of flowers to sell.

And so I say Goodbye, maybe I'll see you later at your house. I still don't call it Home. And then it happens, a far too physical turning point in my life so far (that is: what I remember, all three months of it). I turn to leave, and my head spins like a great metal plate, and all of a sudden my dream floods back to me—and half a heartbeat later I know, more clearly than I know anything, that it wasn't a dream at all. I'm re-remember my life. Like in my dream, the city's floating above me and it's all iron and grit, and Aerith's not there. Aerith_should_ be there, but I don't panic, I don't even worry that much, on the surface. There are two other people with me, people without faces, and they don't really know Aerith very well, only know me well enough to realise that I'm going to go find her. I don't think I've ever felt such determination.

Try as I might, I can't take that goodbye back. I turn on my heels, and Aerith is still watching me, is still with me, and we're not trapped in the shadow of a steel sun. My head hurts and I feel sick, like my centre of gravity's spinning, but out of nowhere I scratch the back of my head and say, "Or. Well. I'll stay, if you want." I make sure to emphasize that last part.

I'd like to say she lights up, but she doesn't—Aerith just regards me with a curious eye, as if Cloud The Stranger has suddenly pulled down the paper walls of whatever box he was trapped in. Aerith's shoulders relax and she manages not to look caught off-guard.

"I'll tell you what," Aerith says, because I know she's not going to be all _Yes_ and _Pleases_, "Go home, clean yourself up, and then we'll go somewhere tonight." She brings up an elbow and the basket with it. "Some of us still have to work."

Admittedly, I wasn't expecting to be turned down, but I'm not feeling disheartened, either. This is it—this girl is the link between Ivalice, my mind, and my world. And it only took me three months of moping around to realise it. I try not to think about it too hard, try not to wonder how I can remember someone so clearly and perfectly when my mind is blank and they live in a completely different world. The day I saved her was the day she met me.

Saved her—I think I've done it before. Maybe I'll do it again.

I clear my throat and tell her it's fine. The next time I turn no city spins in my head, and I see no oceans unknown to me when I blink, but as I walk away I have the strangest feeling Aerith's smiling at me.

---

Ifalna's not in when I get back. It doesn't really surprise me, because she's not there a lot of the time; her mother lives on the far side of down, and Ifalna's job seems to comprise of looking after her. I let myself in and leave the shopping on the table—eggs, fresh bread, a bit of butter. I wasn't entirely sure _what_ I should buy, but this will do for tomorrow's breakfast, and then I can consult the women of the house.

I wonder what to do for a while. I stretch my arms and I'm still alone, and the sound of my footfalls echoes around the empty kitchen. There's not much for it. Feeling the dried blood on my knuckles and lip I reluctantly head to the bathroom again and stand in the bath with a cold bucket of water. The bath is huge, so deep it reaches the bottom of my knees when I stand, but there's never enough warm water to fill it. Sitting on the edge of the bath, waiting to dry, I try and scrub my clothes clean—I'd buy some new ones, but none of the stores around here carry my... style.

The front door slams and I lose my chain to thought. Standing up I bolt the bathroom door shut and hear Aerith shout out, "Hello!" from downstairs. Murmuring something back I pull on my pants and trousers and then realise—it's dark outside the window. How long have I been thinking? What have I been thinking about?

Downstairs Aerith is busy making her way through a thickly sliced piece of buttery bread, and when she's finally done she looks a little apprehensive. I suppose she expects me to have changed my mind, and truth be told I'm half way there; my skin is crawling from the feeling of losing so much time—an entire afternoon!—and I'm not sure where we're going to go, _what_ we're going to do. On the other hand, it's now or never, and fixing my head starts here.

Walking past her I refuse eye contact and push the door open. "Ready?" I ask and she says, "Oh!" wiping her lips with the back of her hand, "Yes! Of course," and begins to tug her boots back on.

It's a nice evening. The sky is an odd dusty red colour, and it's no so cold it's unbearable. We walk through the lanes, Aerith occasionally greeting people around town. I was worried at first, because of the grass stains that wouldn't come off of my trousers, but Aerith hasn't notice yet, as far as I can tell; there are dirt stains all over her dress, and no one else seems to be better the whole town over. As we walk she tells me about her day's work, about a little kid who was so upset from a grazed knee that she couldn't help but give a flower to for free, and I respond with vague "mmm," and "uh-huh," sounds and the odd "Yeah."

We arrive at a tavern soon enough, and I think I'd be rude of me to point out that Aerith doesn't exactly have the money to be throwing around getting drunk. I think she senses this though—maybe from the way my shoulders are so tense—and the moment we step in she points to the chalkboard and my jaw drops a little. Pulling off her jacket and hopping onto a barstool, she explains that the price of drink dropped during the Fifty Year War (which I still know nothing of) and were never really hiked back up. Cheap as dirt. As common as dirt. Every thing's dirt around here—even the bar looks grimy.

No use complaining though. Where I come from might be even _worse_ than this. Just as I'm thinking this and trying to position myself comfortably on the barstool, Aerith turns to me and smiles, and I think—Well, it's not all that _bad_ here. She turns away quickly and I hope she can't read my mind.

Aerith waves the barman over and orders two beers. I think it's strange at first for her to order such a drink, but I peer over the counter and there doesn't appear to be much of anything else. The barman comes back over quickly with our drinks—he's about my age, long black hair pressed flat under a chemist's cap, and seems to know Aerith. A lot of people in here do, and I can only wonder where they were hiding when those knaves attacked her.

"Hey Zack," Aerith says, takes a sip of her drink, and I latch onto the conversation again. "How's business?"

This "Zack" shrugs, and looks at me curiously as he wipes a glass clean. "The same as ever—we've always a few more customers than the flower industry," he turns from me to wink at Aerith, and then asks, "Is this the famous lodger I've heard so much about?"

Aerith nods and Zack reaches out a hand to me. "Zack Fair," he says, and whatever I thought about him a few seconds ago becomes moot. He might be boring his eyes into me and trying to get under my skin, but I think—yeah, this guy is alright. He's just having fun; I think we could get on.

"Cloud Strife," I say and shake his hard firmly. He smiles and bows his head in a mocking sort of way.

"Well, Miss Faremis, Mr Strife—unlike some I can't sit around and chat all day, so you two enjoy yourselves." And with that he's off to the other side of the bar, ready to pull a few more pints.

I haven't really met anyone in this world. Of course there was Ramza to begin with, but now he's... somewhere I don't know, and I've no idea how to contact either Mustadio or Rapha. I see Luso and Beowulf every now and again, but Aerith is the only one who's constantly there. I'm glad to have met Zack, but equally glad he's wandered off. Leaving the house was difficult enough, and I'll know I'll fall victim to another one of those headaches with too many people around.

I take a mouthful of the beer and it catches me off-guard. I swallow half of it and the taste is so disgusting I have to put my hand to my mouth so I don't spit the rest out across the bar and Aerith's lap. She laughs lightly at me, drinking hers with ease, and I slosh the foul drink around in my mouth before gulping it down with a wince.

My eyes are watering. "I suppose it tastes nicer where you're from, Cloud," Aerith says, and almost sounds sorry for me. She's still backing her drink like it's nothing, already through half a pint; I can't start falling behind already. "It must be an acquired taste"

I try to drink it quickly, as if I'll taste less of it that way. "Yeah. I guess I'll get used to it."

Leaning an elbow against the bar and resting the side of her head in her palm, she asks, "Are you planning on staying here a while?" She's looking at me as if she really _cares_, as if she knows me inside-out but just doesn't _know_ it yet, and I'm worried I've turned white as a sheet and she goes "Hmm?" because I still haven't answered.

"Maybe." I drink more. "Probably."

Aerith brightens and sits back up straight. "You know you're welcome to stay with us for as long as you wish to."

"Oh. Thanks."

I buy the next round of drinks, and then, because the taste is slowly becoming less bitter—or I'm becoming all the more drunk—I decided to buy the third round as well. I'm not sure who pays after that. This isn't bad at all. Zack popped over a few minutes ago to make a snide comment, and if it wasn't for the puppy-dog expression he made I'd have hit him by now. A couple of other people have come over to exchange hellos with Aerith and I've even joined in a conversation or two. We're talking with more ease now and I'm smiling, though I'm sure it looks stupid.

Aerith leans forward, one hand bundled around the knees of her green dress and the other still clinging to her drink like a lifeline. She looks up at me, wicked, as if there's some deep, dark secret between us. "What's your world like, Cloud?" she whispers, or at least means too—I'm sure the alcohol amplifies her voice.

And I'm drunk enough to answer, because Aerith's question is not mocking—if not a little slurred—and she doesn't look so bad like this, with a drunken little glow about her. I stare for a second too long, and then shake my head. "Like this, but with airships and huge, metal buildings. And we dress better, too, and don't talk so strangely." The pictures in my head probably make more sense than my words.

"Airships?" Aerith's eyes go wide. "I've read about them in books. I would have loved the chance to go on one."

Haven't we had this conversation before? "I know." Aerith tilts her head at me as if to say 'how?'. "I'll talk you on one," I announce, lifting either my fifth-or-sixth my beer in the air.

This time, Aerith is quiet for a moment before laughing, and she's about to do something—reach out to me, perhaps—when Zack walks over, puts a hand on each of our shoulders and says, "Come on, you two. Closing time."

I don't realise until that point people have been clearing out. At first I think I've lost track of time again, and I'm about to become angry until Aerith seems just as surprised as me. She doesn't complain, though, just reaches over the bar to hug Zack, and then next thing I know we're stumbling out of the door, wonderfully drunk. I think this is the drunkest I've ever been without feeling as if I'm going to throw up. No wonder—I forgot dinner.

If it's colder outside than it was on the way here, I don't notice. The alcohol is making me feel warm and I'm buzzing, and Aerith has her coat slung over one arm. We wander back to her house in a zigzag until we reach a grassy knoll, and suddenly my legs are elastic and don't want to support me anymore. I sit down with a thud, and Aerith does the same, somewhere behind me. It's too dark to see anything.

I'm looking up at the stars and even they're spinning. I dig my fingers into the ground and I feel as if I'm going to fall off. Closing my eyes and breathing deeply, I count to ten and when I open them everything's a little clearer, just a tad calmer. The stars burn my eyes like pinpricks, and suddenly I think—this is it, I'm alone, and I can't believe how much I miss my world. Every day here feels like a dream, like nothing I see or do is really real, and if nothing has any substance and—

Aerith's arm wraps around me, and I feel her leaning against my back. Oh, Aerith. That's right, Aerith's here, Aerith's always here. The last two drinks are catching up with me and suddenly I do want to be sick but Aerith is holding me still like an anchor but it hurts to keep my eyes open because everything is spinning even though it's dark and all I can see are starts and these thoughts don't make sense and... and, I don't know.

"Hey Cloud," Aerith says, "Cloud! Maybe one of those starts is your home."

I blink hard, and she's stretching out to point at the night sky. Some of her hair is in my face. I can't tell if she really believes what she's saying or not, but she's trying her best to make me feel better, and my body relaxes a little. Aerith's something of substance, at least.

"So don't worry," she continues, and maybe she's been talking this whole time. "You'll get home eventually. But for now, you'll have to put up with my world, and me. Come on."

And you? That doesn't sound so bad right about now. Aerith manages to stand up and offers me her hands. I take them and almost pull us both back down in the process of standing, but we manage to catch each other. I'm not sure who's more drunk out of the pair of us, so we walk back to Aerith's house like that, supporting one another.

After fumbling with the keys for a good five minutes we get in, and Aerith manages to get a lantern on. The light spilling into the kitchen makes bright colours flash before my eyes. We both down a glass of water in the hope that we won't feel too terrible in the morning, and Aerith wants to eat. She holds out a chocobo egg the size of both her fists and asks if I want some—I take it from her tentatively, trying not to crack the shell with my fingertips, and tell her we're in no fit state to try and cook anything.

"Mmm, yeah," Aerith says through a sleepy yawn. "'night, Cloud. I had fun tonight. I don't know why you've been hiding away in that room for so long."

She waves in my face and makes her way up the stairs without waiting for me to answer. Two minutes later and I'm still standing there, as if I'm waiting for something more to happen. Nothing does, of course, so I blow out the lantern, bang my knee on the table and head towards my room. I call "Goodnight, Aerith," through her door, but she doesn't reply—probably asleep already. Right where I should be.

I collapse against my softer-than-hay but still not comfortable bed, and have the creeping suspicion that I'm going to have some of the strangest memories flood back to me as I sleep. My head is pounding, and so ends my first day of trying to get back home.


	2. Chapter 2

**Notes:** (a) Zarghidas is now Sal Ghidos, to fit in with the new translation.

Thank you very much for all the feedback so far!

---

I want to hide from the world. No—I want the world to disappear. And not just this world, this strange, strange Ivalice, but all worlds. I don't want to see the sun again. I try to bury my head into my pillow as if it's sand, and pull the covers up as if they're going to protect me, to stop me from feeling like _this_. I want to hide form the world, I want to...

I want to be sick. Of course I feel like this—there was _last night_, of all things, and I haven't been awake for more than a few minutes. It's all hitting me at once. When I sit up I feel as if my joints are grinding against each other and I've left my stomach far behind. But this is good, I try to convince myself. That cheap, disgusting beer is making me feel sick, and this is a _real_ sickness, not one caused by not remembering and not belonging. I'm becoming part of this world, slowly but surely.

But, dammit, that doesn't stop me from wanting to throw up. Boldly I stand, and my feet find the ground more easily than I expected them to—my mind reels for a moment, but everything eventually settles. If I can just eat I know I'll feel so much better. Eggs, I think. We have eggs. I'm wearing the same clothes from last night, but that doesn't matter too much at the moment. My goal right now is getting to the kitchen without vomiting.

Half-way down the stairs I suddenly freeze. This always happens when I drink: those wonderful minutes where I don't remember what happened the night before don't last long enough. Aerith's going to be in the kitchen, isn't she? And, last night, we... were having fun, I suppose. I don't think I said anything too ridiculous. I mean, she was fairly drunk herself, so it's likely she's in the same boat as me. But after the tavern, when she had her arms around me, after that... no, nothing happened. That's right. No need to worry, Cloud, you did just fine.

Aerith's in the kitchen when I get there, and the smell of her breakfast—as wonderful as it is—makes my stomach turn. Just relax, I tell myself, and make more noise than I need to when I enter the kitchen. She turns to me, smiles brightly for a second but then loses it. I guess she's realised that it's not going to be so easy to talk to me as it was last night. We're both painfully sober now, and hungover from the looks of it. Her hair is a mess—I think the spikes might rival mine—and she looks very pale, completely washed out.

Am I really that unapproachable? Mustadio was always saying I was rude, but I never really noticed it until now. As I look at her and quietly say good morning, I hope, above all things, that she doesn't find me threatening. There are enough men like that already around Sal Ghidos. Taking a seat I rest my forehead in my palm and grumble nothing.

"I'm sorry," she suddenly says, and her voice sounds so much louder than it should. Aerith taps the broken eggshell on the side with a big wooden spoon. "They were you eggs, I know, but—"

"But we over did it a bit last night." I don't scold her, of course. Even if I did care about something so petty I wouldn't make a fuss. "Don't worry about it, Aerith. They were for you and Ifalna, anyway."

When I look up, she's smiling at me weakly—I'm not sure whether it's because of this odd little gesture of mine or because she's remembering last night, but I relax a bit. Perhaps this won't be so awkward, after all. Aerith tells me (tells, doesn't ask) that she's going to make me some eggs, and I'm relieved. I'm not much of a cook, and I doubt I ever have been. When I think back, there was always someone cooking for me: a woman I can only assume was my mother, and more recently, a woman with long black hair.

I forget about the far past for a minute, and think back to last night. It was—well, I enjoyed myself. I'd go as far as to say it's the best day I've ever had in this world, but that doesn't really say much. Also, I don't think I'm up for doing that again for a while. I run my hand across my face and through my hair and I am utterly exhausted. I can't have slept more than five hours.

Aerith puts fried egg down on a chipped plate in front of me, and slides into the chair opposite with plate of her own. I don't eat for a moment, just sit up, rest my hands on the side of the chair and watch her—she eats quickly, so she must be in the same frame of mind as me. Eat until the hangover's gone. After a minute or so my game's up, because she finally looks up from her breakfast and offers up a quizzical look.

"It's easy to get carried away."

"Hmm?" She still has the fork in her mouth.

"Drinking. When you're nervous," I clarify, and move onto the important business of cutting up my egg. The knife scrapes against the plate and splits my head in two.

"Nervous? Why were you nervous, Cloud?" She's being naïve on purpose, but grinning a little through her cloud of confusion.

I shrug. I really am so much bolder when I'm drunk. Aerith looks a bit annoyed, but quickly shakes it off and digs back into her food. I follow suit. A couple of minutes worth of quiet contemplation pass, and then:

"Being here, with you. I think I lost half of who I was along the way to... here. Your world. I mean, look at me, Aerith. I'm not _meant_ to be here, and I've not been helping myself. Yesterday I decided to try and work things out, just to find a way home, and I... I just thought maybe talking with you with you would be the first step. I can't explain it."

Oh. Apparently a sober Cloud can open up, too. As soon as the words leave my mouth I want to hide from the world again, to sink into my chair. Of course I can explain it! It just doesn't make sense. I can't tell her that we met long before we met, that I came back to _her_, not this dammed city. Across the table Aerith looks a little surprised—I probably mirror her expression, right now—but she's so understanding it's painful.

Reaching across the table she covers one of my hands with her own. I'm still clutching my fork, and suddenly it becomes clammy. She gives my hand a squeeze, and my eyes snap up to hers. I want to say something, she wants to say something; but instead we are silent, and I think this is the way it should be. Until we recover from our hangovers, at least.

We sit like that for whole seconds until the kitchen door swings open, and Aerith pulls back her hand with frightening speed; amidst the panic I knock my elbow against the arm of the chair. I bite my lip and try to will away the jolt of pain. It's Ifalna, of course. I don't know who I was expecting. She walks into the kitchen calmly, as if she hasn't interrupted anything (I pause here: was there really anything to interrupt?) and looks miles better than Aerith and I.

I suddenly have a horrible thought: was Ifalna home last night? I didn't even think to be quiet, and Aerith made so much noise with the lantern and that frying pan I wouldn't let her use, and then there was all that laughing we did over nothing.

"I take it you two had fun last night." Well, there's my answer. Ifalna doesn't look as if she's annoyed—somewhat amused, if anything. It's probably best if I don't make a habit of it, though. Aerith is blushing, and she already looks recovered with the colour rushing back to her face. I quickly finish off the last of my breakfast and put my plate in the sink, once again feeling the full force of the hangover. I need a bath—a _real_ bath—and to sleep for at least an entire day.

---

When I'm not dreaming, I work. For the most part, it's easy; I never take on any bills that look daunting, and the biggest injury I've suffered so far is a deep cut on my right arm from a Chocobo's claw. The money's not terrible, even if I have no idea what I'm actually saving it for, and now that I take on a new job every two days or so, the barkeeper at the tavern knows me well enough to stop watching me across the bar whenever I walk in. The biggest job I've taken on took five days to complete, and I've never seen someone quite so angry as Aerith when I returned. First she shouted, saying I could have been killed—I only had a bruise on my left knee—and then flat-out refused to talk to me for a couple of hours. In the end I mumbled an apology, and she made me sit with her at the table, took out a scrap of paper, and started penning down all of the dreams I could remember.

We make a point of doing this every few days now, when we're both around. Although I'm trying—trying _so_ hard—to talk to her, and not to disappear with my sword on my back for days on end, we see each other less now. A hour or two in the evenings, if I'm lucky, and sometimes at breakfast. She tells me I need to slow down, and I honestly think she's right—but gil is gil, and it's certainly something she doesn't have enough of. We've been eating well, these past few weeks. We even had meat a couple of days ago.

It's Sunday when we're both next together, and Ifalna's at Church. I asked Aerith why she doesn't go, once, and it seems the business with the Stones is enough to make anyone question their faith. As is men appearing from strange worlds. There's something odd about her today, though. She's got the pencil in one hand, and I'm trying to rack my brains to produce _something_ (so far the list we've made of What Cloud Remembers reads like a landscaping magazine) but she's not really all there. Sometimes I'll say something and she won't hear me, and she just looks so distant. I don't know if I should worry or not, because this has been going on for a few days now. I think she thinks I haven't noticed, but something is eating her up the same way she's chewing the end of the pencil.

"Aerith?"

She shakes her head and she's back with me. "Oh, Cloud—sorry. Do you remember anything more?" I've been telling her about one of the dreams I had the night we came home painfully drunk—only I don't say it was from that night; truth be told, that's the last time my dreams weren't just random sequences of images.

"Okay," I say, and lean back on my chair so two legs are in the air. "It's like this," I close my eyes and stretch out my arms, as if trying to see it in the black of my eyelids again. "Every thing's red. At first it looks like the sun's just too bright, but the whole... the whole—it's a canyon, I think—the whole canyon is red rock." I can hear her making notes. A flash of pain cuts through my head, and I bite the inside of my mouth. "I think people live there, because the are houses scattered around. I'm there with other people—lots of people. Maybe seven or eight, and we're—sitting around a fire. I don't know if it is a fire. Maybe it's sun. But we're together, we're—"

"What do they look like?" There's something creeping into Aerith's voice. As ever, her breathing is hitched a bit. I think this disturbs her; I think she thinks I'm mad. Maybe I am, maybe I am.

"No idea." I shrug and open my eyes, and the image is gone. "I look around and they have no faces, and I try to focus on them and my head hurts more. But someone I was with was—upset? Alone?" I shake my head, and that's a sure enough sign that today's unraveling is over. I feel like a test-subject, like part of a discarded experiment. My head hurts so much now that I have to rest it in my arms against the table top, and the next thing I hear is Aerith place a glass of water in front of me. Usually she'd stay with me at times like this, but today she whispers that she hopes I feel well again soon, and then she's gone from the room, just like that.

What's wrong with you, Aerith?

By the time I've been living with Aerith and Ifalna for two months, we've visited the tavern together a few more times, and managed to stay respectfully tipsy. It's not been as exciting as the first night, and I wonder if I've broken something between us; if there was anything in the first place. Zack's usually working when we do go, and I wonder why I don't see him around town that much. The barkeeper who used to look at me wearily says Zack spends most of the day sleeping, and I'm not sure whether he was joking or not. Either way, I've _heard_ Zack a few times; he drops into Aerith's place every now and again. I've no idea what they talk about, but I always feel as if I shouldn't interrupt. They're old friends, or something like that. I never did get around to asking.

"Good-day, Cloud!" Zack exclaims when I go job hunting one day—he's covering the other guy's shift. I pull up a stool and sit by the bar with him, and work's quickly forgotten. He gives me a pint, and doesn't charge me for it. "So," he says, not as casually as I think he was going for. "You're living with Aerith now, correct?"

"Yeah." It's depressing how I've become used to the taste of this beer. Zack nods very slowly, trying to hide his reaction.

"Oh, she's a good girl, Aerith," he tells me, while his eyes flicker around the bar nervously. "I hope you're taking good care of her."

If only you knew Zack, if only you knew. (If only _I_ knew.)

But he doesn't stop there. "I used to, you know. Live with her, I mean." Suddenly I'm holding my pint glass tighter than before. "When I was much younger, that is. Our parents knew each other, and I wanted to try and make something of myself in this city, so they gave me the spare room. Honestly, we drove each other mad. I think we're too alike." Why is he telling me this? Suddenly, he laughs, and the whole tone of conversation changes. My head clears. "Now look at me, working in a bar! Not really what I had in mind, Cloud."

"Where are you from?" I don't mean to sound as bitter as I do, really. Zack's in his own reminiscing world and doesn't seem to notice.

"Ah. A small rural village, about fifteen miles west. Where did you say you were from again, Cloud?"

I didn't, but I don't have it in me to lie to Zack right now. "I'm not really from around here," I say, and start drinking again so I don't have to continue.

Zack stares at me for a very long moment, and a confused expression clouds his face. He rubs his chin with his thumb and first finger, before breaking out a smile and saying, "Oh, Gariland, right?" He looks rather pleased with himself. I nod, and then I'm treated to a half-hour rant about what a horrible place it is—no offense meant to me, of course.

---

It's a day after my talk with Zack, and Aerith won't stop pacing. Whatever's wrong with her is getting _worse_, and she still won't tell me what's the matter. She's jumping at every little thing—the door slamming in the wind, me saying "Good-morning" too loudly—and not able to stay in one place for more than a few seconds. It's so frustrating—I want to take a hold of her by the shoulders and make her sit still for just a few minutes, to make her tell me what the problem is. All the time she tells me she's perfectly fine and smiles warmly at me. I suppose this is how it feels when people try to help me out. I don't think she's been to work for a couple of days now.

We're sitting in the front room when someone knocks against the door. The noise echoes through the whole of the house, and Aerith is quick to put down the book she wasn't reading and rush to open it. Slowly I make my way through the kitchen and into the hallway, and—well, this is unexpected. My heart skips a beat when I see who's standing in the doorway, and I can't believe my luck. Mustadio! He's introducing himself to Aerith, and has a bag slung over his shoulder. 

"Cloud!" he says when he sees me, a bit apprehensively. I never was on my best behaviour around him. "I've been looking for you for sometime now. What luck to have finally found you!"

I tell him it's good to see him, and Mustadio tells me that he has _something_ to tell me. We both glance at Aerith without meaning too, and although she wants to listen in, she smiles, tells Mustadio it was a pleasure to have met him, and heads upstairs to her own room. I can't think straight—not from headaches, for once, but excitement—and I hurry to get us both sat at the kitchen table.

"She seems to be a lovely woman," Mustadio says, "She's the flower peddler whom you were trying to defend, is she not?"

I nod. "Aerith." On to more important things now. "Have you fixed it?"

Mustadio suddenly casts his eyes away from me. Oh. I should have expected as much, I shouldn't have got my hopes up. I suppose I'm not going home today. Without wanting to, I suddenly feel angry—why is he here, after dragging me to this damn world, if he doesn't have a way to send me back? Eventually he shakes his head, and apologises profusely. I don't listen to what he says. Something about Stones, and not understanding how machines _actually_ work. I don't want to hear any of it.

"But, I did not come simply to, ah, rub salt in the wound," Mustadio says. And so we get to the point. He picks up the bag he had previously been carrying and opens it. He pauses, and I can't see in to it. "The transporter that brought you here has been exhibiting strange behaviour as of late. My father thinks it a mere after effect, that the dimension you came from is still attached to ours by a single thread, but I rather think that parts of your world are following you here, Cloud."

"So you're saying..." I'm trying so hard to peer into the bag that I'm on leaning out of my chair.

"That's right; these objects came through not long ago. I thought I might do well to ask whether they belong to you."

Mustadio empties the bag, and there are only two items in it. I don't know how, I don't know why, but I suddenly find it difficult to breathe. These are _mine_. I reach out with trembling fingers to make sure they're really real—it's like touching part of home. A thin pink ribbon and my phone. I bite my lip, take them between my palms—Mustadio asks if I can explain what the phone is at some point, and I nod, not really hearing him. I just want him out, I just need to be alone. If I can look through the phone, then... names! The phone book will be full of names.

Five minutes later and Mustadio's gone. I've agreed to meet him the same time next week, and he's sworn to me that he's still working on the transporter. Holding the phone in one hand and the ribbon so tightly in the other that my nails are cutting into my palm, I turn to the stairs and am stopped dead in my tracks. Aerith is sitting there, and I want to kick myself. All this excitement at the possibility of getting home, the thought of being somewhere different—she's smiling, but it doesn't reach her eyes. There's a sadness, and it's nothing to do with what's been troubling her lately.

It scares me how hard realisation hits me. I'd miss her. I'd miss her so much it's hardly worth going back—I came here for a reason. But I've got to be stronger than this, I've got to see it through to the end. Trying my best to smile back, I sit down next to her, and for a while all I can hear is my heavy breath and the blood pumping in my ears.

"You're leaving?" she asks, and her voice is not as stable as she would like it to be. "Going back to your world, I mean." She has her knees hunched up to her chest, her head rested on her arms as she looks up at me.

I don't know what to say. This definitely isn't unusual for me, but my throat is tight, and I feel like whatever I say will be the wrong answer. I don't want to leave you, Aerith, but I can't be here. This place is breaking me apart bit-by-bit from the inside, and I can't comprehend why. "Not for a long time yet." We both try to smile.

There's silence between us again. I smooth my thumb over the pink ribbon and try to place it in my mind—it thins and creases at both ends, and if it's been knotted together in a loop. I'm not sure why I'd own something like this, but the more I look at it, the more I want to turn and face Aerith. Eventually I build the courage up inside of me—funny how easy killing fiends is, compared to this—and say, "Hey, Aerith," so she's looking at me again. Reaching over I take one of her hands and pull it towards me. She looks at me quizzically but doesn't say anything, and quickly I get to work tying the ribbon loosely around her wrist. It looks... right there.

"From my world," I explain. "I'm... not sure why I had it, but I think it'll look better on you than me."

Aerith brushes her fingers across the ribbon, and then smiles at me—_really_ smiles, and even laughs a little too. She thanks me because it's all she can do, and carries on touching the ribbon as if it's a part of her. Soon enough she stands up, and she's _almost_ looking back to her old self. She tells me to carry on upstairs, and to work out how to use... whatever it is I have in my hand. She stares at the phone as if it might bite her.

Half way up the stairs I turn to her and say, "Don't worry, Aerith. I'm not going to vanish without saying goodbye." She doesn't look as cheered as I had hoped; I suppose she wanted me to say that I wasn't going to disappear, full stop.

---

I turn the phone on, and the battery's at eight seven percent. The phone comes to life and lights up my dim little room with a generic greeting message, and I'm so _scared_ that my hands are shaking and I can't press any of the buttons. This is it. Names, messages. Maybe even photos. My old life, in a tiny electronic box. Even though I don't swear much I keep cursing as I look down at it. I've missed this—real technology—more than I care to admit. And more than helping me fill in the gaping blanks, this _proves_ that I didn't make this all up. It proves I really did come from another world.

Well, shit.

Eventually, after reminding myself that the battery _will_ drain if I'm not quick, I take a deep breath and calm myself. I press the button in the top-right, address book, and prepare myself to look through it. I scan the list, trying to eat all the information up. A lump forms in my throat when I realise the names don't mean _anything_ to me. Barret. Cid. Cosmo C. Elmyra. Highwind Airships. Home. Me. Reeve. Tifa. Top-up credit. Vincent. Voice mail. Yuffie. I scroll through three times, just searching: why isn't her name here? I've been so sure that I know her, dead set in my ways; so where's Aerith? Why isn't she first in my phone book. A. A. A-e-r-i-t-h. I'm definitely spelling it right. I want to throw the phone against the wall, and barely manage to refrain myself.

It doesn't matter if her name's not in this list, I'm not wrong about knowing her. Maybe—maybe she's "home." It's idiotic to even try, but I stop scrolling and hit the green call button. There's not even a dialing tone. The phone beeps angrily at me, and a prerecorded message apologises for there not being any service in this area. I hang up, and it a network failure message shows up. Snapping the phone shut, I try and relax. There's more to find, and I should be happy with what I have. Laying so I'm on my front, I hold the phone out in front of me and open the message inbox. I just scroll for a moment. Most of the messages are from "Tifa," but I stop when there's one from "Barret," about six texts down. It doesn't make sense to me—something about me looking after someone called Marlene. There are thirteen messages in all, and I begin to read them in reverse order. Most of them I haven't replied to.

This Tifa likes to ask if I'm alright a lot. "Cid" has send a message that is not much more than a string of swear words, and "Yuffie" asks why I didn't turn up to Wutai—Wutai? What's one of those, anyway?—when "the others" did. This is all mundane, and I'm not getting anywhere—no flash backs, no sense memory, nothing. I skip Barret's message, and there are three more from Tifa, asking me how I am. One I replied to. I raise my eyebrows, impressed with myself. It's not until I get to the second to last message that I manage to get a reaction out of myself, and... and—I wish I hadn't.

_It's been a year, Cloud. Please don't do this to yourself. Let her rest._

My hands are shaking again. I don't want to open the last message, but ignoring it isn't going to make it go away—it's happened. It's happened already, and my fingers are moving against my will. It loads on the screen, and my eyes can't focus on the words at first; and yet, I _know_ what it says. I've not forgotten, I've just been ignoring the pieces. I've never had a headache like this before, and I want to scream out, to throw myself against the walls. It's Tifa again, and the message was sent an hour later—I must have replied, and I don't know _what_ I said to get this reaction:

_I know it's hard. I miss her too. But try and forgive yourself, Cloud. Aerith would want you to be happy._

Aerith. I don't want to believe the word. I want to hide from the world, to throw up on the floor, to shout and shout. I can't remember this, not this of all things. The whole of me is shaking, and the pain is splitting my head in two—every time I blink images without any form or colour flash behind my eyelids. My fingers are tingling and my mouth is dry. This—this feeling has happened before, hasn't it? My eyes are burning, and yet the message is still there, glowing at me as if to mock me. There's nothing I can do but turn the phone off and try to breathe. I can't help it; the whole room spins without me and the next thing I know I'm clinging to the headboard as if it will save me and emptying myself on the cold stone floor.

I'm still shaking and I've thrown up so much that nothing but bile's coming out any more. I hear footsteps against the stairs, and I know it's _her_; the noise should comfort me, but the reality of it all falls down and crushes me.

There's a burning behind my eyes, a horrible heat, and all I can do is dig the heels of my palms into my eyes and wait for the feeling to pass.

I don't think it ever will.


End file.
